


No one escapes Cidhna Mine

by Theo_Lannister



Series: The Fifth Empire [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark, Dubious Morality, Evil Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Sarcastic Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Skyrim Quest: The Forsworn Conspiracy, Slavery, Stormcloak Victory, The Forsworn (Elder Scrolls), The Great War (Elder Scrolls)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 10:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27849378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theo_Lannister/pseuds/Theo_Lannister
Summary: The prisoner apeared to be a Nord. A rather tall Nord, with red-brown hair, shoulders that would make an ox envious, and yellow eyes that pierced the soul. But the most terrifying thing about him was his smile.
Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Serana, Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Serana
Series: The Fifth Empire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038662
Kudos: 11





	No one escapes Cidhna Mine

"What's your name, orc? Gra- something, I'd wager." Despite bound in heavy ropes, and naked save for a clout, he seemed as at ease as he would in full plate. Urzoga didn't like it when her charges felt like they could look her in the eyes. So she hit him with the flat of her sword, busting his lip open.

But that was all.

He didn't stumble or fall, his head hadn't even turned. "And here I thought courtesy was still alive in Markarth," the prisoner said, sighing. "Well, I'll not keep you waiting. Through this gate I suppose?" The warden just... looked at him. How in Oblivion was he... like that? An Orc, she would understand, hell even an Argonian. But this was a pink elf, a man. The prisoner was a Nord. A quite tall Nord, with red-brown hair, shoulders that would make an ox envious, and yellow eyes that pierced the soul. But he was still a man! 

She considered hitting him with the edge of her sword, but only grunted, nodding towards the door. She would need to make inquires, something about him was unnatural.

* * *

Hjalti smiled, his lower teeth stained red from his broken lip. He liked her spirit. He'd still kill her, of course, but he thought that he might feel bad afterward. He'd known he'd need to kill them all if the current pattern proved true. He'd quite liked Nepos the Nose too, that hawk-faced bastard. But the old man was still lying in a pool of his own blood. He knew Ulfric quite liked Throngvar as well, but Thonar wasn't like to survive much longer.

Most of them wouldn't.

He'd danced the dance in Riften too. Walk into town in his least impressive looking armor, his old steel plate, with his least impressive weapon, an elven sword he'd enchanted earlier that year. All in all, he looked like a mercenary named 'Bael,' not Hjalti Stormcrown, Thane of Whiterun, Harbinger of the Companions and Ysmir, Dragon of the North. He wasn't stupid enough to tell the guards who he really was. Not if he wanted to get inside the prison. His true equipment was in that old haunted house on Understone Road.

It should be safe enough there. Though he'd banished Molag Bal from the building, his energy still remained in the ruined building, only strengthened by Serana's presence. Once he was done in here, he'd simply grab it, see to a few more assassinations, then announce himself. By then, enough of the city's pillars would be collapsed, and Ulfric could enter a Markarth free of corruption and sin. 

First, he needed information.

* * *

Borkul saw the Nord stride intently into the prison, put on a pair of roughspun pants, and sit down, he back against the wall. He didn't seem to notice, or at the very least, care, about the taunts thrown his way. He never said a word, but if Borkul learned anything as a bandit, it was how to read someone.

He was tall and bulky, looking like he even overtopped Borkul himself, and he was muscled too, the type of muscles you only get from hours with plate and axe. A true bruiser, he knew from a glance. But his scars said something different. His back was striped like a saber cat's pelt, the type of scars one can only get from the blow of a whip. But that wasn't the most intimidating part of him, it was his eyes.

They were yellow, and they were focused on him.

The Beast stared back, waiting for the other man to turn away, but he didn't. He only sat there, looking. Borkul felt his skin crawl. "Fresh meat!" he yelled towards the nord. he had to say something, or those eyes would consume him, he knew. "Start mining. It's the only way you're leaving. Get to work."

His yellow eyes widened as if surprised. "No, I don't think I will. And in the future, you will refrain from speaking to me without my consent."

Borkul was prepared to walk over and pluck those yellow eyes out, but he couldn't. He couldn't move at all. If he hadn't been leaning on the wall, he would've fallen over, but even still, it was an unpleasant experience. And deep inside his gut, he could feel primal, animal fear. He wanted to run away, to beg forgiveness, but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything, but stand there, frozen.

The Nord walked over to Borkul slowly, and calmly. And soon he was close enough to kiss, if Borkul could've moved.

"I could kill you right now," he said in the same easy way someone would say 'I am going to take a walk later.' "None of them would stop me. Nothing could stop me. In seconds, you'd be nothing but a red smear in the stone, do you understand?" He looked in him straight in the face, expectantly, until he began to laugh. "Oh deary me, I forgot that I paralyzed you! You can't say anything right now!" He snapped his fingers and turned away.

Borkul felt, suddenly, all his muscles relax, even his blatter. His knees buckled and he fell on the hard stone of the mine, a slow wetness overtaking his pants.

* * *

"Do you want the Skooma or not?" Grisvar whispered to Duach, his shiv out. 

"Of course I do, dolt. But I want to live even more than that. That new blood.."

"If the new blood isn't dead, then we will be. Do you think Borkul will let us live?"

"No," Duach sounded morose. He always sounded morose, though he was a bit of a coward. But you didn't need to be very brave to kill an unarmed, sleeping man. 

He was sleeping where he had sat prior in the day, near the gate. His back was turned to the main chamber, and he seemed to be unarmed. He hadn't grabbed a pickaxe earlier and it was unlikely that he smuggled in a shiv. "Hang on, give me a second, I don't want him to wake up." Duach put his hand on Grisvar's shoulder, and whispered an ancient elven phrase, and soon the both of them were muffled.

"You shouldn't do that, you know."

Duach froze where he stood, his head swiveling. He couldn't see the speaker, it was just him and Grisvar in this old tunnel turned some-what private bedroom. "Who said that?"

Grisvar looked at him, his head cocked. "Said what? I didn't hear anything."

"Something's going on here, I don't like it."

"You're just jumpy, that's all. Once we get our skooma, we'll be fine. Just... hold yourself together for a few more minutes."

The campfire that Uraccen tended was doused, and the main chamber was dark, with only the sounds of the Beast's snores on the other side of the gate. Slowly, ever so slowly, the two prisoners walked closer to their quarry. 

"This is your last chance."

He heard the voice again but kept walking. It was an illusion or the jitters. Something. Maybe even his conscious, though he doubted it. He just kept walking. He was only a few paces away.

"You had your chance," this time he couldn't feel it, he could hear it. It was coming from the sleeping figure in front of him. And then, the new blood turned, and his eyes were alive with light, illuminating the chamber. "But I should'v expected as much from you... beasts." Even though he wasn't asleep, Duach was still prepared to charge him. To kill him, to stop that damned glow. "Fus Toor dah!"

And suddenly, felt so terribly warm. And he began to scream.

* * *

Their bodies were never found. 

There was a scream that awoke the prison, and everyone inside. Borkul came running out of the private portion of the prison, a pickaxe in one hand, a shiv in tother. Uracceen bounded up, two spells glowing in his hand and a third coating his body like a second skin. But where once the two men were, there was only dust.

Hjalti thought that, most like, all it would've taken him was a single word, either Fus or Yol, but he wasn't going to risk it. Even still, the full phrase might have worked as well, but he didn't want anything to be traced back to him. As far as the prison was concerned, he was simply a Nord mercenary caught up in the intrigue. So, he needed them gone, and 'Force, Inferno, Push,' a combination he built after seeing Miraak mix Unrelenting Force with Dragonrend and Mark for Death.

And so, the two men were turned to ash and scattered.

Things would need to move much faster than he intended. 

"Who screamed? I swear to Malacath, I'll kill you all, who screamed!" the Beast was roaring. 

"Who do you think, pig elf? The only two fools in the prison not currently here!" Hjalti shouted back. And all the talking voices were silent. "The only question isn't who screamed, it's what happened to the screamer. Where are they?" A look of uncertainty passed between the prisoners. It was Borkul, on behalf of Madanoch, who gave orders. Not some Nord. And with that, Hjalti hiked up his blanket, turned, and fell asleep.

* * *

The next day, Braig found himself cornered. He had been mining at a new vein he'd found, intending to increase his own silver production in the secret tunnel he'd built. But it was a single entrance and saw the world get darker. He turned, to see the tall Nord blocking the way out.

"Are you forsworn?" the Nord asked casually, "or a dog?"

"Look at my warpaint, boy. I'm forsworn, same as every other fool in this mine."

"Not every fool," the Nord said, grabbing a piece of silver ore Braig had left on the floor. The Nord muttered a word, and the metal slowly began to grow yellow, reflective. Gold. "Soon, one less."

"It... it was you! You're a mage, and you killed Grisvar and Duach!"

"Clever. Are all you savages so clever?" The Nord changed his grip on the gold ore, and held it in his hand as if he was unsure what he was looking at. And then he changed his grip, and punched, using the gold like brass knuckles. Braig tried to dodge, cursing, but the man was faster than he was, hitting him hard in the shoulder. He felt his shoulder bone ache and could feel bone fragments moving freely. He managed to pull up his pickaxe, aiming a strike with the point into the Nord's heart, but he was gone. "Hircine be good, where is he?" Braig muttered. 

He glanced around, knowing the Nord was somewhere. He considered running, but prey was never so vulnerable than when fleeing. And suddenly, there was a pressure on his throat, and the Nord popped back into existence, a hand locked around his throat, another over his mouth. "I've met Hircine, and I don't think he'd be very impressed."

The hand was suddenly off his throat, but it was quickly placed behind his head. He tried to scream, to fight, to live, but he couldn't. He'd dropped his pickaxe when the Nord grabbed him, and it sat with the spike aiming upwards. "No, please, don't. Please, god's Damn you!" 

But the Nord didn't care, he only pushed hard, and the spike went through eye, brain and the back of the skull.

* * *

Odvan awoke to two glowing yellow eyes standing over him. He tried squirming, but found he couldn't move. Then he tried screaming, and that didn't work either. 

"I've paralyzed you, temporarily at least. I wanted to tell you something. I'm going to unfreeze you now. If you scream, I'll kill you. Do you understand?" Odvan thought he'd be killed anyway, but he supposed dying later was better than dying now. "Good. You're a smart lad, I can tell."

Odvan felt his muscles tighten and relax, and he could move again. "W-why?"

"Because your grandmother is a good friend of mine. I needed help poisoning an Emperor, and she helped. I owed her, you're my price." Poisoning an emporer? Who was this man? Or even better, what was he. "Tomorrow, after the guards come in and claim our silver, go into the furthest room you can. Stay there for an hour, I'll come get you but I... won't look like me. Do you follow?" 

Odvan nodded again.

"I'm going out a different way, you're going to follow a tunnel in Madanoch's cell. Once you get to the Spider room, turn to your right, and you'll find running water. Hold your breath, and swim. You'll pop out near the gate. I've hired a carriage, he'll take you to Riften. Talk to Brynjolf, he'll sort you out." Odvan nodded again. "If I find out you're not in Riften within the week, I'll find you. And I'll kill you, Grandmother or no. If you betray my trust, you'll die."

* * *

Uraccen and Borkul had slept in shifts, both two terrified to sleep alone. Not that they'd ever say such out loud. Hjalti knew though, and even the guards coming in weekly were not enough to settle them. "Where are the others?" the female orc barked.

"I don't know," Uraccen responded. "Dead, I suppose."

"All of them?"

"Well, not all of us. I'm alive, as is Borkul and his Grace."

"And the Nord?"

Hjalti smiled. It was almost funny how easy illusion magic was. Two spells were all that was needed, and no one could see him or hear him. He'd gotten past the guards and was sitting next to the gate, just waiting. 

"We don't know. He was just here."

"Find him!" The She Orc roared. 

"Do I get a reward?" Hjalti shouted, slamming the gate. He was on the platform, a good thirty feet above the others. "I do believe I found myself."

"Bael, get down here, or do I need to whip the hide off of you?" She yelled with false bravado so fake a skeever could see through it. 

"My name isn't Bael. You must know that by now. Even a pig-elf could figure it out. My name is Hjalti. And now, you all will die." Black fur covered his skin, and he seemed to grow, almost impossibly, taller. His nose extended and when he smiled, sharp fangs were obvious. Only his eyes remained the same, as the rest of him was turned into a Lycanthrope. He howled, it felt so good to howl. He hadn't let himself loose sense that last Bandit camp, and he felt incredible.

Leaping onto one of the Silver-Blood mercenaries, he heard bone and steel crack under his momentum, and he jumped with sickening speed off the body, grappling another guard in his left hand and ripping the head off another with his right. The She-orc was bellowing out commands, her men formed a small wedge. The mercenary in his hand, still screaming, was thrown at his allies, caught on the edge of the spears when they tried to male a spear wall. 

Flames started licking up his side as Uraccen began to burn him. It did not matter. He lunged towards the Reachman, taking a step with all four paws before bounding onto him. This time, there were no screams. It was difficult to scream when your throat had been ripped out. Two arrows landed on him, and he snarled, turning with a black fury. He howled, but not as a wolf normally would. In a guttural form of Dovahzuul, not even a quarter of his usual finesse, but nonetheless a cloud of force shot his foes backward into a wall, breaking their wedge. 

Brave, stupid Borkul. He thought he was a hero. He threw a chunk of silver at him. Maybe he thought that would kill him instantly. It burned, a little, but it bounced off easily. 

The rest was imply clean up.

He ran on all fours to where he had told Odvan to wait. He looked as if he was about to scream, or piss himself. It was unclear. When the smell of fear wafted into Hjalti's nose, he almost considered eating him on the spot, but the animalistic side of his brain was beaten back. Instead, the reachman was grabbed by the waist and soon he was running, back to the central chamber. He ripped the door off of it's hinges and opened the other with a powerful kick. "Rrrhun. Now,,, little Rrheachman..." His voice was half growl and half-whisper. As he spoken, his form slowly shifted back into that of a Nord, stark naked. "I have business with your king."

* * *

"I've dreamed of you, murderer." The King in Rags did not seem surprised, nor scared. "Wolfblood, Dragon-Soul." Hjalti laughed, taking a seat across from him. 

"You're a disgrace, did you know that?" Hjalti said back, kicking his legs up onto the table, grabbing a dagger to clean blood off of his hands. "I mean, all you had to do was properly modernize and you'd be-"

"I'd be a slave!" Madanoch yelled back. 

"You are a slave, idiot." Hjalti shook his head.

"You know, my mother used to really respect you. She was training to be a Hagraven, but..." he gestured to his surroundings "This isn't exactly the ideals you promised."

"I promised freedom, and I delivered, until Ulfric Storm-"

He was interrupted by Hjalti, "You really are stupid. Do you think that the Imperials would've allowed you to hold this city? If it wasn't Ulfric, it would be a legion. Your fellow Reachman in High Rock had even promised to aid the imperial, in exchange for some silver and a couple of acres."

Madannoch hadn't known that, he could tell. "You're lying."

"Why would I lie? If I wanted you to suffer, I could make you suffer. You are a blind old fool and an idiot. The Reachman of High Rock are smarter than you ever could be. They've worked with the Bretons and Legionnaires, even getting their own principality. If you wanted to be 'free' you could've just as easily gone there. Instead, you've indoctrinated children for years, sending them to die in your pointless little war."

"They died as free men, then. Heroes, trying to free their rightful home from-"

"Markarth was created by the Dwemer. Then the Falmer took it, then the Nords from them. It isn't yours because an ancestor a thousand years ago pissed on it."

Madannoch did not reply, only to glare. "Traitor," he whispered with a hiss, "If your mother was training, then you're one of us, by blood."

Hjalti laughed again, tossing the knife over his shoulder. "Your wife is a Reachman too, and she left you to rot as well." His jaw tightened. The King in Rags didn't speak, only glared. "Do you think Bothela didn't tell me? You know, she asked me to rescue her grandson. I asked about you, and she told me to kill you."

"She'll die with the rest, then, when we ret-"

"Have you not listened to a damn word I've said? You can't retake this city. The Forsworn can't. If you lead your people down another forced attack on this city, they're doomed." Hjalti sighed. "I thought I'd be able to convince you, but it appears as if I'm out of luck. I can't let you die, you'll be a martyr. And you're too dangerous to be left in here."

"So, what will you do to me, traitor?"

"Oh that word again," Hjalti almost sounded petulant. "I am twenty-nine years old, Madannoch. My mother was asked to kill someone to become a Hagraven, a wealthy Nord from Winterhold. She refused, and she fled to Cyrodil with her new husband, the Nord. I was raised in Colovia, not the Reach. She taught me the ways of Hircine and Nocturnal, my father taught me the ways of Shor and Kyne. I hold no allegiance to you. But you will to me."

"What in Hircine's name is that supposed-"

He was interrupted by Hjalti. "Gol Hah Dov!"

* * *

_The Second Battle of Markarth was the conclusion of the long drawn out war between the Nords of Skyrim and a faction of the Reachman, called 'Forsworn.' The conclusion of the war was an event known as the Cidhna Coup, an act orchestrated by the Dragonborn, who had not yet been named Emporer. Hjalti, who entered the city undercover, began a purge of the city. It is unknown who he killed, or how many, but it is confirmed that he killed all the residents of the Cidhna Mine prison, save for a reachman named Odvan and the King in Rags[Citation located on page four hundred and thirty-two]._

_Hjalti emerged from the prison covered in blood, side by side with the King in Rags. The King, Madannoch, ordered the few Forsworn left in the city to storm the front gates and open them, which was quickly done. A Nord host under the command of Captain Ralof of Riverwood stormed the city, and Markarth was once again in the hands of the Stormcloaks. With him came orders from High King Ulfric, giving temporary control of the Reach to Hjalti Crow-Eye._

_Thonar was executed by Hjalti using the axe,_ Wuuthrad _, as well as the execution of several others related to the Silver-Blood family. Throngvar Silver-Blood, older brother to Thonar, was spared. Jarl Ingrim was not. Nor was the small Imperial and Thalmor host. Markarth, as the origin of Thalmor forces in Skyrim, all the nobility of the city were deemed guilty in their crimes. Several hundred Reachman advanced on the city, from both High Rock and Skyrim, but were welcomed in by the 'Protector' of Markarth._

_It is unknown how Hjalti was able to convince the Reachman to swear fealty to him. Some say it was due to his Thu'um, others say it was because of his Reachman blood, and others whisper that Madannoch had been enslaved using ancient magics the Dragonborn had uncovered on Solstheim. Regardless, several clan leaders of the Forsworn, and some from the Winterborn and remnants of the Longhouse Emporer, were wed to wealthy nords. The daughter and presumed heiress of the WInterborn was wed to Throngvar Silver-Blood (Supposedly against his will)[Citation reguired], thus finally finding peace in the Reach._

_This is considered the first major move made by Hjalit in his conquest, as a way to bind both the Nords (Who already revered him due to his Thu'um), the Reachmen, and several petty Kings of High Rock, even convincing the King of Daggerfall to aid him. After this, the Kingdom of the Reach (Lead by Throngvar Silver-Blood) was founded, the third kingdom (After Daggerfall and Skyrim) swore fealty to Hjalti as the next Emporer of Tamriel._

-Excerpt from _The Second Markarth Incident_ from the fifth edition of the _Pocket Guide to the Empire_ 's _The Reach and her People_ chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write something that reminds people how scary the Dragonborn actually can be.


End file.
